Dandelion Beauty
by BlueSaints
Summary: In Bridget's small world, there was only Bridget. And music, and maybe a little bit of Math. She was content with what it was but apparently someone wasn't, because Edward Cullen is adamant on getting on that list, too.
1. When We First Met

**Since this is going to be asked a lot, I'll explain this here. I, like many others, am not a fan of Bella as a person.**

 **Bella is not going to be in this story because this isn't Bella's era at all. I am setting this in the time before Bella, a life cycle before the Cullens start over in Forks** **in 2003.**

 **I hope that someone out there is going to like what I wrote. Thank you for giving this story a chance.**

 **edited 27 Dec 2017**

§

When she closed her eyes and willed it hard enough, she could hear it.

Mom, talking animatedly in the foyer waiting for one of the housemaids to retrieve her coat. Dad was on the other end of the conversation, listening attentively like the amazingly patient man he was. Her? An obnoxious, extrovert sixteen-year old, leisurely sprawled on the sofa with her phone on her ear, planning a Friday night out. She didn't even bother to look up when Dad planted a kiss on her forehead as they were leaving, waved her hand dismissively when Mom promised to send pictures from the charity gala they were going to attend.

But she never got the pictures, nor did they ever come back home.

§

August 1996

The faint scent of cigarette hit Bridget's nose when she opened the door to her BMW– a left-over from the ghost of a girl who thought that cultivating the habit would be hip. The scent triggered the memory of the silly giant red bow the car had arrived with, something Dad thought would be hilarious on her birthday. Before the familiar warmth could burn, she had sped off just above the speed limit.

The road that led to the campus consisted of a _Wegmans_ , a few mom-and-pops shops and the sports club that was frequented by college students and locals. Bridget would have chosen to ride a bike over being confined in a car, but riding up the hill would be required and she wouldn't be pleased if she arrived in class drenched in sweat.

Parking her car beside a black family Mercedes, she pulled the hood of her jumper over her head and tucked long, blonde hair into the coat before exiting the vehicle since it was drizzling already. She should've opted for a sturdier leather bag instead of the drawstring material. Hopefully she wouldn't have to deal with wet score papers for the afternoon practice.

The classroom provided for advance financial math was small and square, filled with thirty students at most, as it does every year, proving that not many were eager enough to try studying something challenging. Counting was hardly challenging, but the brain work and the strenuous study they required were. As the teacher drawled on with bond amortization, her eyes flitted to the transfer kid that happened to sit in front of her. It wasn't odd to have a transfer, but the event was so rare that everyone had been talking about it for weeks during summer break before the student even arrived.

He looked like an alert-student, like any other of her classmates–like any other valedictorian. Though not all of her classmates were valedictorians, they wanted to be, which was probably why Professor picked on Bridget a lot; she sat however she pleased, did work whenever she liked and busied herself with other things when not, and knew her life-changing story and privileged background had granted her the seat to the elite private college itself. She was parentless and too privileged for her own good, after all. If only he actually sat down and talk to her, she might felt enough sympathy to share her stories and use her smoldering eye contact and pearly-white smiles to turn his opinions around.

From his back, she could see that his hair was a bland bronze color, so many colors they would've made her dizzy if the sunlight hit at the right places, and it was effortlessly messy. His hair looked almost flamboyant, but with a touch of modern hair commercial. She wondered how much time he actually spent on it. Must've been annoying to wake up so early just to look presentable. _Edward, right?_

Bridget's eyes moved to his face when he tilted his head to his left as if he was about to talk to her. What she saw was as impressive as the hair. Strong chin continued to a square jaw accompanied by a high cheekbone that made a strong combo that his lips seemed to just fit into, a little slack as if he was about to say something, his nose thin and straight, ending into a slope of prominent eyebrow and his slightly upturned eyes beneath it, leaving little space in between and creating a severe stare when moved a certain way. It was a boyish side profile, yet altogether he was anything but.

"Miss Wilson, please show us how to do the equation."

Her eye twitched. Bridget was convinced that the only thing that can please Professor Turner was her inability to do an equation. Fortunately, that also meant that Bridget prepared for every class; one utter humiliation for not being able to solve an equation during her first semester in front of everyone was more than enough for her. It was independent study sessions every other day for a few hours at a time in her apartment study space now.

Bridget took pride and grinned to herself as she underlined her solution, secretly crossing her fingers that Professor would learn his lesson this time. But she didn't hope too much, this has happened time and time before.

"Very good," the Professor murmured, clearly not pleased.

She wanted to rub it to his face, so much so that she even added written explanations on the board. She chuckled in her seat when the Professor was forced to walk it off. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to write too much, but she didn't like him as much as him her. They started on the wrong foot.

"You did that on purpose," a melodious, yet masculine voice commented.

Bridget looked at Edward, scrutinizing his juvenile face as he turned halfway on his seat. Her eyes automatically searched for the Professor, making sure that her usual far-corner seat was a safe distance away from his ever-watchful eyes.

Her eyes went back to meet that of Edward's, who was looking at her expectantly, waiting for an answer. She was struck for a moment, realizing how pale the boy was. His skin looked like that of the porcelain dolls that she used to play with when she was younger. Her father built a collection for her from his all-over-the-globe adventures. Bridget knew what to expect every time Dad went away for awhile, and was over the moon every time she got to add yet another doll behind the glass door. But from holding them numerous times in her hands, she knew the texture very well: flawless, smooth, and hard.

"Glad you noticed," she replied, kicking the thoughts about his face out of the window.

"I believe I haven't introduced myself, I'm Edward Cullen." He offered a smile.

The first thought that popped in her mind was how much his smile colored up his facial expression, but then, she knew that smile; the polite, hopefully-you'll-see-me-as-a-decent-person-style.

"Bridget Wilson." Her smile vanished, suddenly wary.

"It's nice to meet you."

"You too, now stop talking or he'll pick on me again." She jerked her head at Professor, pretending to focus on her notebook. She saw his amused smile from the corner of her view, a smile reappearing on her own lips at the attention he showed.


	2. Equal Standing

**Edward is the newbie and Bridget isn't, I'm limiting my character-bombardment in each chapter. I'd like to take their relationship slow, so the first stage is creating an even ground a.k.a. no predator-prey based relationship. It was really unfair for Bella in the book since day one.**

 **Also, I'd like to think that this is set in Rochester, NY, but in a made-up college since I can't refer to any real-life college there. Not accurately, at least.**

 **edited 27 Dec 2017**

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death.

Bridget startled awake, her hand on her forehead, a light smile plastered on her face for a moment before it was ruined by a yawn. She liked them ugly and loud when she knew there was nobody else in the room. She looked at the clock on her nightstand. Six in the morning. Trudging through the living room of her modest apartment, she half-expected to see someone else standing by the kitchen, preferably Mom, trying miserably to cook Munchkin Bridget egg-and-bacon for breakfast.

She shook her head and backtracked, deciding that shower sounded better than caffeine at the moment.

In forty five minutes, Bridget was waiting for her tea to finish brewing whilst taking out spaghetti from its box, holding it in her hands and twisted each hand to a different direction. The sticks fanned into a perfect circle in the pot and she smiled, satisfied with the view. She then added water and carefully carried the pot to place them on the stove, turning it on. She was clad in soft grey-colored cable-knit sweater and light wash jeans, her face made up and hair brushed neat.

Pouring herself a cup, she tried to whistle along an overture playing at an FM broadcast, and failed miserably when she almost spitted into her precious dose of caffeine. "Sorry Dad," she whispered to herself, placing her cup on the table right beside a copy of A Streetcar Named Desire she found loved and battered in a thrift shop for half a dollar. "Still sucks at whistling."

Back in the kitchen, she turned off the gas and poured the pot's content into a colander. She picked up a piece and bit on it. Al dente, thank goodness. She was getting better at this, she decided. She started eating, enjoying the song in the background to its fullest. Bridget was deciding to wrap her Streetcar copy to postpone its collapse when her phone rang. It was Jade, a lovely friend she'd known since her school days whose manic days outnumbered the calm.

 _"Bree, I need you."_ Her voice was almost breathless. Bridget decided Jade was calm enough to talk to, because nothing got past her ears to her brain when she was erratic.

"I'll bring that spare cardigan, don't worry." Bridget grinned at her friend's antics.

 _"No, silly, not that. Not today, at least. Can you do me a favor?"_

"Depends," Bridget replied, balancing her fork on the plate before leaning back on the chair.

 _"My editor entered a competition and I so forgot that I need someone to replace her. Just for next month's issue, please say yes."_ Her tone was one that allowed no excuse.

"You're talking about Dexter Paper." There was a note of incredulity in her voice.

 _"Don't worry, just faxed everything to you so you can start now. It's going to be easy work for you. I owe you one Bree."_

"Jay–" Beep.

She cut the connection.

Bridget sighed, flipping her phone close. She leaned over and peeked through her bedroom door. Sure enough, she could hear the familiar click and buzz from the machine. Coming back to her dining table, she picked up her plate and threw the remnants to the bin, all appetite lost. She reached over to the radio, switched it off, grabbed her Streetcar and hauled her bag off the floor, stuffing whatever was scattered back to its rightful place. There went her breakfast.

 _Always smile naturally; smile as much as you can and remember to do it genuinely._ The words were written on the board by the kitchen facing the dining table.

§

Dexter University was fortified on all sides by ancient trees –which Bridget likes to see as a forest– that only the white spire of the college chapel could be seen from the distance. Not that any of the students need more trees to shade them from the near nonexistent sunshine in town at this time of year. The building was modern and strikingly pretty with its long expanse of grass at the center of the campus. The parking area was busy with late-coming new students carting their wheeled suitcases and cardboard boxes. Dorm kids – no doubt. A late August wind rustled Bridget's hair when she stepped out of her BMW, grumbling when one of her fax papers got flipped on one end.

 _"I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,_

 _Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs.._ " she muttered quietly, making sure she has the quotes she needed memorized carefully. Shostakovich's Second Waltz played in the background of her memorization, the walkman in her pocket.

She felt like a circus juggler approaching the west wing of the campus with many things to balance: her feet, a textbook, a score book, and the stack of papers credits to Jade. Today was meant to be the first ALG (Autonomous Learning Group) meeting and their tutor had e-mailed them to memorize a few lines of their choice as a part of their introduction.

As expected, nobody was there just yet. Eyes lingering on the table by the faux garden that was supposed to be their meeting place, she opted for the stone bench in between the two pillars that was supposed to separate the garden from the halls. Placing her hand-carries in front and her bags by her side, she pulled her legs up and leaned on the pillar, her eyes closing by instinct when a new song came on.

When she came back to it, her lips parted in surprise to see the bronze-haired boy sitting on the bench leaning on the other pillar across hers, eyes closed. Her gape turned into a frown when she continued staring. How unfair was it that Edward Cullen got skin so perfectly clear while she has to deal with chaotic constellations of freckles? Now that she got a good look, his skin was pearly, almost glowing in its paleness. Glancing back at his face, she bit her tongue. She was caught staring.

After a quick glance at the still-empty designated table, she offered him a meek smile before turning to the stack of faxed papers by her feet and pulling one up to her knee to scan its contents. Or at least pretended to, since she couldn't even focus when she was being watched. Yet another oddity, she has never met nor heard anyone owning the eye color that reminded her of her own hair. Her dry humor then came up with the thought of having eyes that match her hair, but she quickly shook it off and tried to fill her time with something more useful. Like reciting lines she worked hard to memorize last year in her head.

 _Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget_

 _What thou among the leaves hast never known,_

 _The weariness, the fever, and the fret_

 _Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;_

 _Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,_

 _Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;_

 _Where but to think is to be full of sorrow_

 _And leaden-eyed despairs;_

 _Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,_

 _Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow._

When she couldn't ignore the burning discomfort under the stare she peered up at Edward, face contorting to an ugly grimace before asking, "Can I help you?"

"What are you working on?" he leaned forward in interest.

She raised an eyebrow, looking down at her lap. She had almost forgotten it was resting uselessly in her hands. "Some stories and poems students submitted, a friend asked me to pick-and-revise."

"Dexter Paper?"

"I'm not the editor, if that's what you're thinking," she quickly interjected. "It's a one-time favor." She handed him the story in her hand. It wasn't as if it was illegal anyway. "Are you also in this ALG?"

He nodded, not moving his eyes from the paper. "I think this one is a dare," he handed the paper back. "It's written in a colloquial style."

Quickly scanning the paper, she couldn't believe what she saw. Now Edward would think she actually enjoyed reading colloquial language since she supposedly spent minutes staring at it. Not that she cared, but if they were in the same ALG she should at least make a good impression and be on the same standing. "This isn't colloquial language, it's just bad grammar," she contended, slightly smiling. "It is a dare, though," she mused, recognizing the name of the submitter. Did Jade even take a look at this?

§

When everybody has finally gathered, Mr. Rowley, their tutor had asked them to introduce themselves and said the lines they meant to depict themselves. Bridget had delivered hers, and she tried familiarizing herself with the faces of the people she was going to work with and their respectful names. It was then Edward's turn to deliver his and Bridget's breath got caught when she heard it.

 _"Forlorn! the very word is like a bell_

 _To toll me back from thee to my sole self!_

 _Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well_

 _As she is famed to do, deceiving elf._

 _Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades_

 _Past the near meadows, over the still stream,_

 _Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep_

 _In the next valley-glades:_

 _Was it a vision, or a waking dream?_

 _Fled is that music: –do I wake or sleep?"_

 **The poem recited in this chapter is 'Ode to a Nightingale' by John Keats, and here's Bridget's full 'introduction' poem lines:**

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

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 **Your Delusional Fantasies, cassiarosee, Breaking Dawn21, BarbyChan4ever**


	3. I Want Magic

**edited 27 Dec 2017**

As the oldest child of three, Harold Wilson had learned and made the habit of loving, caring, and sharing at a very young age. Whereas he used to get to share everything with his brothers, it transferred to his young-love-turned-wife once they were married and building a smaller family in a humble ranch. It was hard for the couple to have children, a couple of miscarriages packed in heartbreaks and tears, so it was a joyous event when they finally got another chance even when her age might be a hindrance in the long run.

So when his beloved Katherine had died during childbirth, all his love was transfused to his son and to his family, given time. It was a small family of three, an almost exact replica of Harold's own with Katherine, except in place of the son there was a daughter. A little bundle of joy called Bridget when they first saw her, wriggling and crying in her soft yellow blanket. Harold couldn't stop bringing her yellow flowers and asking tailors to make her tiny yellow dresses ever since.

As his small family in America expanded, so did his ranch. It kept him busy, filling the time and counting down to the moment he would meet his Katherine again. His equestrian interest honed from his younger days as the son of a wealthy expat traveling Europe was quenched when he built stables and filled the stalls with beautiful mares, his own heart lifting every time he got to show it to little Bridie whose eyes lit up at the sight of the beautiful steeds.

The news had come like a punch in the gut he received when he knew he wasn't going to win a brawl. It was shy a week after little Bridie's sweet sixteen, where he knew his daughter-in-law turned into a fairy godmother to make sure Bridie's party was as perfect as she had wanted it to be ever since she was eight. It was his little Bridie who gave the call, her voice shaking to the point he almost didn't understand what she was trying to say. The conversation had been cut short when Bridie started crying then and there, wrenching out his stomach and turning them around. Harold had to take twenty to calm himself enough to drive himself to the city hospital.

He couldn't recognize the girl sitting on a metal chair outside the emergency room. Her hair was still her mother's, her eyes her father's, but it wasn't the girl who cried for her Pa on the phone an hour ago. It was an emptier, straight-faced shell of a familiar stranger. It was never easy having to get to know a person all over again.

But Harold has long since accepted reinvented Bridie for who she was, so he was pleased to remember that today was Friday, which meant that his granddaughter would be driving up to his ranch for a weekend and most probably a scolding.

"Billie," he called out. A middle-aged woman walked into the quaint living room he was currently sitting in, holding a recipe book that she wrote in herself. "Did Bridie call?" Being a caretaker, Billie had taken into doing more than just taking care of him, but also the ranch house itself.

"She did and she's coming for dinner," Billie informed, her tone borderline snappy as it always was, her free hand swinging around the floral apron she was wearing. "Get up and walk a bit, you've been sitting and reading that book all morning."

§

"Thanks Billie, dinner's delicious," Bridget smiled at the caretaker, which was reciprocated "Jade had to cancel last minute, she'd love to come but her boyfriend arranged a surprise date," she told Harold.

"Well, she knows she can visit anytime," Harold smiled at the memory of the exuberant young woman who was one of the very few of Bridget's friends that he has met. There were ones that came for school project, ones who were eager to court his granddaughter, but only a handful who were there for a true lifelong journey. "What's new this week?"

She tapped her fingers on the table, grappling with her own thoughts. The first thought that appeared wasn't the one she wanted to share, but _oh well_. "There's a new transfer this semester, and it's a _he_."

"Where's this _he_ from?" Harold leaned forward in his seat at one end of the table. It was a table meant for a small family, one that he had carved out himself, a hobby he picked up from his own grandfather who was a carpenter back in the days.

Bridget shrugged. "Never asked." She hadn't even thought about it, as if Edward had probably appeared in Dexter magically. Funny. Of how much she had thought of his oddity, yet never even thought of the simplest details.

"Maybe you should."

She peered at Harold, groaning when she saw the glint in his wrinkled eyes. "No, don't even think about it."

"I'm just saying, if you think of him a lot, you should probably try to get to know him," Harold suggested.

"You're postulating on nonexistent statistics," she grumbled, shrinking ever so slightly in her chair.

"Then collect the data for me, or better yet: invite him to dinner," he cajoled. He chuckled when Bridget started looking at him like he grew another head. She started telling him what she could recall of her and Edward's meeting, especially of how he quite literally finished the poem she recited.

"It could be kismet, for all you know," Billie proposed.

Bridget almost choked on her drink. _Kismet? Oh Billie._

§

Originally a ranch with actual horse stables, Bridget's Pa owned a large proportion of land to support the equestrian hobby. The majestic mares were all gone now, sold to another family that ended up opening a place for equine therapy when Pa fell sick and unable to tend to them as well as he used to, especially in the winter. Pa had built a hammock in the veranda that overlooked the barren land when she was eight so she could take watch whenever Pa needed her to. She had claimed the hammock to be hers ever since.

Carrying a blanket from her bedroom, she settled herself down into the hammock, Streetcar in hand. He had rushed through editing for Jade all yesterday and today, and she deserved a break from all the sappy poems and stories.

 _Whoever you are–I have always depended on the kindness of strangers._

 _This game is seven-card stud._

Closing the book, she stifled a yawn before steadying the hammock to step out of it. Glancing at the time in her phone, it was time for Pa to head for bed. She found him in his room, a combination of dark furnitures and dim lighting to create a cosy respite, Billie tucking him in and placing the mask that attached him to the oxygen tanks to ease his breathing while sleeping. She leaned over the side of the bed to kiss Pa's cheek, their little ritual for Bridget to return his sentiment. "Do you want me to play the piano?"

Harold nodded, patting her hand.

Pa had shared a lot of things with her throughout her lifetime. His love for tending to horses, his love of devouring knowledge through extensive traveling and books, and his love for classical music. As Pa's father used to say: time changed, music changed, classic will always be classic. An old Steinway grand stood in the middle of the living room by the window, given down from Pa's mother. The case was rosewood, a beautiful color that was resonated throughout the house. As much effort put into keeping the body pristine, the keyboard had yellowed a smidgen naturally over time.

Sitting herself on the stool, she flipped up the fall and her fingers hovered over the keys before playing the set of songs she felt like playing to lull Pa to sleep. She leaned closer to the keys, ceasing the volume, eyes leaving her fingers to look out the window.

 _I don't want realism,_

 _I want magic._

§

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	4. Infinity

**edited 27 Dec 2017**

"What is a thought but a voice in your head? Surely it is madness to hear no voice at all."

There wasn't much to do on a Monday morning in the three hours she had in between waking up and Professor Turner's class when she didn't feel like running. Bridget loathed having to do the laundry, yet she seeks refuge in the mundane activity. Six thirty in the morning, still in her pajamas and golden locks up in a messy ponytail, she was folding and ironing her clothes while waiting for the other load in the wash. She also noted on top of her head that she needed to grab some groceries at _Wegmans_ and call the hospital to set up an appointment with Dr. Callahan. Her days living alone in an apartment differed greatly with the ones in Wilson house. There were Jules who cooks, Nigel who drives, and Anja and Rosa who split the housework between the two of them. In the house, even when she was alone she was not. But the work made her weekdays more normal, adding more to her list than just school work, which would drive her bald if done too much.

By nine forty-five, she was pacing back and forth along the hallway that led to Professor Turner's square classroom, waiting for a certain dark-haired friend to come collect her papers. Preoccupied with her own humor and imagination, she had sent a sloppy smile when her bronze-haired classmate approached her – or maybe not. Bridget quickly stepped aside, realizing that she was blocking the entrance, mumbled an apology and her eyes were back scanning for Jade.

"Waiting on someone?" Edward's voice was distinctive in her opinion, not the pitch itself, but the way he spoke. It was the opposite of hers; she almost always seemed to be in a hurry that she even speaks as if she was running out of time, so she liked Edward's relaxed pace. In her personal opinion confidence is utterly charming, and she didn't know it could be heard through a much slower pace. Everything about Edward was unbelievably poised - his utterance, the way he stood on both feet balanced and head slightly tilted to the side with inquiry, even the way he dressed himself she approved. She was a fan of classic colors and clothing, and the wine red button-down he wore underneath his light jacket brought all the life to his pearly complexion. But then again, most who got into Dexter could afford the twenty grand tuition, surely he could afford couture.

 _Are we friends now?_ Her eyes flitted to his face, biting her lower lip. "Yeah." She gestured at the stack of papers in her hand. "Had a nice weekend, Edward?"

He lightly smiled, almost a scoff was heard. Looking closer, she noticed that his eyes were brighter, either from the smile or just in general. "I did. Did you?" He adjusted the books in his hand and her eyes automatically went to it.

"Mediocre," she replied off-handedly. Certainly attending a garden party for Jade was a weekly occurence that they didn't really count as highlights. "Gatsby already?" It was a required reading for their Lit Modernism class, but it wasn't supposed to start until next week. She had to curb the fact that she was also starting it, chiding herself for wanting to boast. _So was human nature._

His expression turned sheepish. "Perhaps I was getting too ahead of myself."

"There's nothing wrong with getting ahead," she rebuked. Her eyes then caught to that of a familiar head. "Jade," she called out, waving her hand.

In a blur, the culprit that made Bridget wait like a woman ought for her lover had taken the burden from her hands. "Geez, Bree, I woke up late and I had to rush and I didn't even have time to call Steve and oh – is this your new boyfriend?"

Bridget blinked at the assumption and looked at Edward, no trace of offence or pleasure on her face, nor his, apparently. "Jade, this is Edward. Edward, Jade." She gestured to them both.

Jade was named after her parents saw her eyes, and so with those beady eyes she assessed him. Maybe a little too critically for a first meeting. "I have never seen anyone with eyes like yours," a pause, "I like it," she declared in her usual singsong manner. "Bree I have to go, see ya!"

Bridget fortunately seized Jade's hand just at the right time, stopping her raven-haired friend from dashing away. Bridget swiftly removed her jacket from her waist, and handed it to Jade. "Cardigan," was Bridget's simple statement, and apparently enough for Jade to take the offered apparel before disappearing into the maze of hallways just as quickly as she arrived.

"Bold," Edward's comment broke the silence that ensued after the brunette's departure. Bridget only nodded in agreement, leading them both into the classroom. It was also a polite agreement between them that Edward chose the seat beside hers.

A flitting thought had Bridget snickering, causing Edward to look at her questioningly. She shook her head, grinning slightly. _Don't ask._ She took the time to assess her new friend, her chin resting on the palm of her hand. Something about him was lighter, he looked almost chipper to be back in campus. She wondered what could've made such a good looking person so giddy, but she figured even the most beautiful people (like Mom) have the most humane predilections (like successful baking).

She stared at him a moment longer, not backing down even when he was looking back. _I think you should ask him,_ a voice that sound suspiciously like Pa's resounded in her head, and she was back in the ranch's dining room for a millisecond. "Edward." His eyes flitted back to hers at the mention of his name. "Where did you transfer from?"

A brief smile. "Alaska."

Her eyebrows shot up. She'd never been, but her heart clenched remembering Dad telling her about it. It was no small distance and colder than Rochester for sure. "Why did you move?" _you must feel like melting here._

He shrugged half-heartedly. "I wanted to. My parents are here; I grew up here." _Really? Why have we never met?_

She was seeing all the little telltales; his forefinger moved to be caged by his thumb, the clench of his jaw after he answered. "Oh? They _made_ you move here." A mischievous smile accompanied her statement. It earned her a raised eyebrow.

"More like my sister, but yes, they succeed." His smile was crooked.

She liked how his family sounded like at the moment, especially judging from the mildness of his face compared to when he was talking in general. He adored his family. She briefly wondered how big his family was but nodded, turning back to her desk after leaning to the side, letting the sonata in her head win the duel and play to her heart's content. _There, I've asked_.

"Why did you choose Dexter?"

Her music halted. The question was almost out of the blue, she should take her time. Should she say Pa? No, it would only fish out more questions. Say that Mom went here? No, it would conjure the same questions. New friends shouldn't dig each other's dirts too soon or it would fail before anything good could even come out of it. She then caught his expression: brows furrowed, eyes flicking between her face and her fingers, which kept fiddling. Her sardonic smile was almost perfunctory. _He's trying to read me._

She straightened her back. _We're not exactly friends just yet_. Acquaintances was more like it. Something about his honeyed voice forced her instinct to turn his subtle getting-to-know-each-other offer down. "It's close enough drive from home yet far enough to have the college experience."

"Protective parents?"

Her lips parted, but no words came out. _They were_ , she thought. Dad would always insist on picking her up from parties, and Mom would always wait up no matter how late she stayed out. She would always roll her eyes and told them they were restricting her and being plain uncool, but secretly diving in immense pleasure when Dad sent threatening looks to her guy friends and when Mom brought something home from her friend's atelier. Oh, she knew they were the coolest parents there were; all the fancy galas that came from founding a vastly spreading chain store, the allowance she got to spend unsparingly, the parties they understood she would like to attend and have, and even the sad fact that they had set it so that Bridget wouldn't have to even lift a finger if something bad were to befall the pair. She loved them so dearly it hurt that Edward suggested they were protective. They were much more than that, they were the most amazing, beautiful couple that always made time to talk to her, to make her feel loved even when their schedules were packed to the brim.

"Something like that," she replied curtly.

Besides, if Edward had grown up in Rochester, he would have heard of her family and her name at least once. The media had blown up the accident to an unnecessary proportion, painting their family pictures on every local newspaper available, so much so that it was almost embarrassing if it wasn't so tragic and made her wish the earth would swallow her whole. It mustn't be that hard to connect the dots. He wasn't saving her any dignity by acting as if he didn't know who she was, and that she was orphaned. She was surprised that she felt… disappointment, that yet another new acquaintance was walking on eggshells upon her. Because she would always remember, no matter how little it was mentioned, of her orphaned status.

§

Professor Turner had done the unexpected: announcing that since it was Monday and every student in the class would be a lazy-butt, he decided to give them a pop quiz and let them choose whoever they wish to pair with. Bridget didn't dare turn her expecting eyes to anyone since her mind had flew straight to choose the smartest in class, Kevin, but doing so would allow the Professor to judge her to the grave. Still, she couldn't help but to look at Kevin briefly, breathing a sigh of disappointment when he had partnered with yet another of the smartest in the class. _Cheat._

There were taps on her table. Her eyes followed the pen up to Edward, whom looked mildly amused. "What?" her voice had come out as if she was out for blood, but they somehow ended up pairing anyway.

Professor wrote on the board, "Hilbert's Paradox" and Bridget knew she was screwed. She had read of it when she was trying out World Wide Web for herself but never actually looked it up, and she could usually do anything at all because she practiced beforehand. She would only make herself a fool, and for some reason she felt more of a fool being paired with Edward, a stranger, than she would be with Kevin. She should've just worked alone.

'A hypothetical hotel with infinite number of rooms, all of which are occupied.' With the first sentence on the board, Bridget crossed off Pigeonhole Principle in her head. Okay, she could answer the first question.

"Move every guest from room n to room n plus 1, then that guest can take room number 1," she said to Edward as she wrote down her answer, then noticed that she didn't even indicate which answer it was, but thankfully he knew anyway, busy scribbling down his answer. She later realized that he was already writing before she said anything.

Her face scrunched up in thought by the second question. 'A bus came with infinite number of guests wishing to stay in the hotel.' She closed her eyes. Natural numbers could only be divided into two. She looked at him, expecting his guess.

"You're on the right track." He didn't move his eyes from his paper.

She recoiled in her seat, eyes widening comically. She wanted to laugh. "I haven't said or written anything for question B."

When their eyes met, his were sheepish, almost remorseful. "If you can catch the first one you can work out the second one, naturally."

She noted his discomfort, frowned and went back to her thoughts. "Odd and even?"

"Move every guest from room n to 2n, freeing up every odd-numbered room." He nodded.

She smiled at his clarification. She might not be so bad, after all.

The last question, however, had her raising her eyebrow. What? 'Infinitely many buses with infinite guests inside.'

"There is an infinite quantity of prime numbers." Her help came in a smooth, modulated voice. She couldn't tell whether he was mocking her or just being kind and lending a hand. Or a brain. She knew she was smart, she was offered to move ahead twice when she was in school. The talk with her parents resulted in bumping her up a year, and she didn't regret it since she was now an emancipated woman and her face could still pass as a freshman in high school with the right clothes and make up. Yes, she couldn't even begin to regret their decision.

She quickly racked her own brain for a response because Edward had given her a hint and because she had heard that one before. " _Euclid_ ," she sighed. She looked at his paper and saw what she expected: he had finished. It made her want to grin. _No Kevin, Edward will do_. "So, I empty all the odd-numbered rooms?"

Edward nodded.

"Move the guests in odd number i to two-to-the-power i..." she trailed off, then shook her head. "Ah, lost it."

"That was correct." He placed is index finger on the corner of her paper and slid it toward him, taking his own pencil and wrote down i, 2, 3, 5, and 7. He circled the i. "i is odd numbers, since prime numbers are always odd, except for two. Move all guests from odd number by placing them to room two to the power i." He looked at her and waited for her to absorb the explanation. He continued at her nod, "the guests from the first bus can go to every room of three to the power x. Guests from the second bus to five to the power x, and so on…." He looked at her again.

 _Patience, Edward_ , she mentally chided, though didn't dare to say it out loud. When the light bulb appeared in her head, a wide grin plastered itself to her face. "Got it." She wrote down the answer in her own words, unwilling to erase the scribble that Edward made. He wrote his numbers with elegant crooks, she almost hated him for it.

§

 **From what little I have researched, the family was supposed to be in Alaska with the Denalis, so here are my tweaks: it would be too early for Rosalie to relive where she died and Emmett would naturally choose to stay with her so they're both in Alaska as relatives of the Cullens.**

 **The rest of the 'children' went to high school in Rochester, then 'move' to any university they please whilst Carlisle stayed back in the hospital to keep up appearances. Anyway, I might add new characters for fun and some original characters' development.**


	5. The Prince

**Hello, it's been awhile. For those who had read the first four chapters before this, you might want to reread them because I edited all of them, added more details and maybe you need your memories refreshed, too. I also changed the title and have a pinterest board dedicated to the story if you'd like to check out some inspirations and sneak peeks** **of future chapters. Link in my profile.**

 **Have a wonderful holiday!**

§

A gust of cold wind battered the cream paper lanterns hanging from the eaves of a tea house café near campus that Bridget visited very often in the morning. She was panting when she arrived by the glass panel doors, hands clasping her knees as she bent, regaining her breath after running. She loved the activity when she was in primary school because she ran fast and liked to compete with the boys, then hated it when she was in high school because it ruined her perfectly styled hair and wasn't comfortable for her chest area, but lately she had been going back to it, reveling in the wind that slapped her sweating neck and the swish of her ponytail. She tried to be as active as possible, especially since her campus life started and the workload had just doubled in the second week into the semester. She found that she was more confident of her prowess when she liked what she saw in the mirror, so she took off for a run on the mornings she didn't have class, and went to the country club for a swim or tennis or gym session every other day, and resumed her dancing classes since golfing alone wouldn't exactly give her a toned stomach.

A bell jingled overhead when she entered the café, pulling off her rain jacket that was more precautionary than utilization and tying it on her waist. She winced when the bottom of her tennis shoes squeaked hitting the polished floor, thankfully it was muffled by the steady buzz of customers talking over each other. Waiters bustled about a dozen tables, seemingly unaffected by the morning drowsiness outside. As they reached the end of August, the temperature was dropping and Bridget intended to milk as much time as she could running without having to wear a thermal jacket.

 _"Bonjour!"_ Jade called as she flounced down straight stairs at the corner of the shop wearing a broad smile." _Bienvenue, mon ami_ ," she said as she placed a noisy kiss on Bridget's cheek. Jade always said she felt most at home in her parents' tea shop, which was an exact replica of the one they had in Paris before they moved to America, even down to the type of wicker chairs used and the jazz music playing softly in the background. Bridget could attest to this because she had been to the original _Bernard Café_ , and they had moved simply because Mr and Mrs Bernard were adventurous people.

"Where's Steven?"

"Upstairs, in bed." Jade wiggled her eyebrows, which were almost fully covered by her fringe-Françoise Hardy style-before turning around to walk to the kitchen, placing her apron on, even though Bridget would be the only one she served - her shifts changed every semester but it was usually on weekday nights. Jade didn't live here until it was time for college because it was closer to campus than her suburban home, the same way Bridget had to purchase an apartment to move into after her first year in the dorms. They spent the last week of summer before third semester started turning an empty storage room upstairs into a loft. "Heard you're golfing with father-in-law this afternoon?"

"Yeah, jealous?" Bridget handed a girl at the cashier some cash for her order.

"Not as jealous as you'll be, hearing that I'm spending the morning sailing with my boyfriend." Jade pointed a finger accusingly. "Speaking of boyfriends," she said as she handed Bridget a tray with her usual honey lemon and butter croissant for breakfast before pulling off the apron and hung it on a crooked nail, snagging herself a plate of puffs from the display oven. "Are you taking _Charles_ to the park reopening?"

"I think so, and his name is english Charles, not french _Charles_ ," she chided.

"Pot, kettle."

"Except the pot won't look over if called kettle, dearie," Bridget replied, placing her tray on her usual spot by the window. "Is there something wrong with taking Charles? _Jade_ ," she insisted when her friend busied herself with her puffs, eyes looking everywhere but her direction. "What is it?"

"I thought you're going to take Edward," Jade blurted.

She almost choked on her drink."Why would I take Edward? He's practically a stranger and I _have_ a boyfriend."

Jade shrugged. "You like the looks of him, _don't_ even try to deny it, I know your type," said Jade threateningly."Pretty, medium broad shoulders, dresses classically, and hear, hear, most important: taller than you wearing heels."

Bridget sputtered. "D-Did you read my diary?"

"Maybe, in tenth grade. It broke my heart when you stopped writing, you know, I like knowing _all your secrets_ ," her voice dropped into a dramatic whisper. "Anyway, just saying, I won't mind him replacing Charles, whom if I'm correct, is your fake boyfriend."

"He isn't my fake boyfriend," she grumbled.

"He _wasn't_. The relationship has changed, B, and trying to get back together is like, oh I don't know, gluing a broken vase?"

Bridget bit her lower lip. Her and Charles had been together for a year, they got together last summer at the fourth of July celebration in the Hamptons after bonding over frustration over their respective exes and the experience of being a big fish in a small pond in Rochester. She had to admit it began on a completely physical attraction, but then they got to know each other and she liked this loud boy who went to University of Rochester whom secretly enjoyed writing and reading poems. His love letters consisted of sappy poems and their arguments filled with witty comebacks and intelligent research. She liked him. It seemed that they couldn't get through their latest bump in the road and now they couldn't go forward nor go back, their connection stretched at its limits. "We're stuck," she concluded.

"Exactly. Even your Pa knows what's happening." Which, both Bridget and Jade knew he didn't mind at all. Harold Wilson was in the opinion that everyone has their own experience with romantic relationships. Both Bridget and Charles looked like the perfect picket fence pair that people adore to look at, and Bridget knew Jade wasn't trying to pair her with Edward, it was more Jade trying to get her single professionally so that she could look at other options that doesn't involve being a trophy girlfriend - a very pretty young woman who is intrinsically involved in high society with a bulk of cash in her bank from her inheritance alone.

"Well, we both know it's impolite to dump the host before a big event." But maybe it was time to listen to Jade's suggestion. After all, she had asked eight times now.

"But you've been together long enough to politely break it off with each other after?" Jade's ridiculously long, dark eyelashes fluttered, framing the forest green orbs a certain way when her chin tilted downwards. She had her hands folded neatly together on the table, lips thinned into a straight line. This is the Jade Bernard that earned the title chief-editor for Dexter Paper by winning over the majority of Dexter students with campaigns and vote, who asked for Bridget's help on writing the speech, splattered glue that ruined her bedsheets when they were making a vision board, and asked if she should look sexy or professional in her headshot (to which Bridget had replied, 'why not both?', and then Jade showed off her smoldering gaze to the camera.)

Bridget chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief. _Européen._

§

She waited until his third call during her lunch break before she picked up. "Don't you think it's odd that I'm seeing my boyfriend's dad before seeing _my_ boyfriend?" She mouthed _Charles_ to Jade who was sitting across from her, munching on her fries and frowning deeply. Jade voiced her opinion in freshman year that they weren't french fries.

There was an uncomfortable cough before Charles' answer came. _"Sorry Babe, you know I am."_ His usually orotund voice faltering. " _How was the Hamptons?"_

Somehow, in a mutual agreement of needing a break, they had both decided to not have any contact during the summer. She was still undecided on her feelings about it. "As always; skinny dipping, underage drinking 'til the wee hours of the morning, charity galas, fancy dinners, pleasing the misters and missus, posing for the pap as an anonymous socialite. You know the drill." She bit in a sigh. "How was Majorca?"

 _"Hot. Spent a week on bike exploring Serra de Tramuntana and the rest missing you."_

She rolled her eyes. _The hopeless romantic_. "You know what? I think meeting face-to-face before the park reopening will be good."

 _"Okay. What do you have in mind?"_

"Billie gave me Granny's old recipe book when I was there last week. Her vanilla cupcakes sound disastrous enough to me." Katherine Wilson was a mysterious figment of imagination to Bridget— not even her Dad got to know her. Bridget saw her recipe book as a key to figuring out the simplest tells: was she a neat writer? what cuisine did she like the most? was she better at cooking or baking? Bridget's mom sucked at both and so it looked like she got her adequate talent in the kitchen from Nan.

 _"Okay, when?"_

"Tonight, six pm, we're going to get take-outs and then we'll bake." Jade mouthed _we'll break_. She let out a small laugh.

 _"I'll see you then. Love ya."_

"See ya." She flipped her _Motorola_ shut. She liked this model, much simpler than pressing a button to end a call.

"Aw, _bebé_ , you didn't say 'love you back'? That's _sweet_." For a moment, all Bridget could see was them back in the school cafeteria, Jade the 'it' girl because she was a cool foreigner who doesn't flinch at nudity and couldn't grasp the concept of monogamy, and Bridget the insider because she dated popular guys from neighbor schools and summer in the Hamptons with Manhattan kids. And look where they were now, in Dexter cafeteria with everybody else who could afford the bank-draining tuition. "I miss high school," Jade sighed.

Bridget raised an eyebrow. "We think scarily alike."

"I know, you have that nostalgia look." Jade pointed her chin at something behind Bridget. "Prince's here, where's the golden carriage?"

Bridget turned around in her seat, smiled fondly at Edward before pointing a finger at Jade. "Rude, Jadey. Lates." She swiped her bag off the floor and slung it over her shoulder. "Let's go," she said, pulling Edward's wrist and dragged him off before Jade could say anything Bridget would be embarassed for for the rest of her teenage life.

It took her to stop hurrying to realize the coldness in her grasp. Quickly, she let it go, both in surprise and in embarrasment. "Sorry, inappropriate."

He briefly smiled, the sides of his golden eyes unmoving. "That's quite alright."

Her mind was whirring with her plans for the rest of the day, half unconscious of what Edward had plucked her out of her cafeteria chair for. Until he took a hold on her sleeve-covered wrist and said, "the ALG meeting is in the library today, Bridget." as he moved them along the stream of students heading the opposite direction.

She looked at him with a dubious expression, blanked, then cleared. "Oh, right." She cleared her throat and poked at the hand that was holding hers. She had a boyfriend.

 _"Sorry, inappropri_ _ate."_

Her expression turned murderous. "You sly mouse!"

It was the first time anybody in Dexter heard Edward Cullen snicker, and he made a funny noise that made Bridget laugh.

§

 **Next up is a party chapter!**

 **Please review!**

 **Thank you for your review:**

 **BarbyChan4ever, guest**


	6. Patron and Patroness

**Happy New Year!**

 **I'm honestly not so happy with this chapter, it's missing something... Maybe you can point it out to me?**

 **I would appreciate if you tell me if Bridget's backstory and personality is alright so far. Of course, a lot of things are still under wraps because tell you what, she is an INFJ personality and I wrote her in a 3rd person POV for a reason. Anyway, hope you like this chapter. Please leave me a review :)**

* * *

She'd only given in because there was a ten-minute break to kill and she didn't have anything more productive to do — she didn't bring her planner, unfortunately, she had left it in her car— so she didn't cut him off as she usually did, decided to entertain him as she sat in her designated chair in the library, eyes roaming back to Edward's honey-colored eyes once in a while as she listened to his theory on Gibbon's _History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,_ an opening intermezzo to his History of Philosophy class.

When he asked for her opinion she said, "I didn't make my essay about that last year." She rubbed her chin. "Though I agree that if the spread of the new religion was halted there might have been hope." She rolled her eyes, turning in her seat to fully face him. " _Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions._ "

"Karl Marx," he mused. He propped his chin on his hand, looming closer and a line appeared between his brows when she met his gaze evenly. "What was more interesting to you?"

"Edward Gibbon himself. _"_ Her mouth curved into a smile, reciting a part of her old essay. "In my opinion, Gibbon was a suppressed soul — being under his parents' strict supposition that he must follow their beliefs— and once they died, he voiced his dissatisfaction and showed his true colors: that he was actually indifferent about the belief, and through the book he indirectly explained why the religion might cause a downfall." She followed every one of his eye movements.

"Are you really making Gibbon out as a child throwing tantrum?" He was amused at the conclusion.

"Aren't all writers...?"

"So you don't think that the book was a work of honest observation and hypothesis but written for a self-satisfying mean?"

She grounded her jaw. "If you disagree all you have to do is say so."

"I'm not gainsaying you."

Her nose crinkled. " _Okay_ , stop mocking me then." _Who says 'gainsay' these days?_ She only knew what it meant from Pa's choice of words. And he was an English man who's over eighty years old.

His brows knitted, but a corner of his lips quirked up. "I'm not mocking you."

"Yes, yes you are," she pushed his face away lightly with her knuckles. "Leave my philosophy alone," she groaned.

She looked up when he chuckled, suddenly entranced by what she saw. Something so glaringly obvious, a perfection exceeding the scale of Hollywood stars, a poise groomed more thoroughly than the British royal family. She'd never had the courage to ask why, because there was no closing the pandora box once it was opened. She didn't want to have anything to do with Edward more than she already had. She also didn't understand where his tenacity came from.

As a person who went by intuition alone, Bridget single-handedly chose the people she surrounded herself with. By first impression she decided whether she wanted to get close to them or not, and the rest she would decide as she went along.

Her intuition said a big, fat _hell,no_ to Edward Cullen.

Was it a karmic payback for being such a picky bitch when it comes to friends? Because man, wasn't he insistent.

Bridget had tried and failed at the outwardly-cordial, inwardly-detached technique that she used like a mantra. It didn't work. Her old habit was hard to quench, the one that didn't hesitate to touch strangers she liked the looks of, make flirtatious jokes, and the questions. The fact that she liked people with lives bigger than hers, seen more than she had, and could teach her something new. Edward slowly checked a list he didn't know he had to: opening doors for her to go first, offered to carry her hefty textbooks, wasn't disgruntled when she was being aloof, when she talked over him, or when she snatched the book he was reading right out of his hands.

Try as she might to annoy him away, he was still there.

That usually meant one of two things: He _truly_ wanted to be her friend, or he _truly_ wanted her affluence.

She slouched in her chair, hitting her forehead on the ebony table surface. _Fuck._ How ever did she manage to get into this position? Would Steve mind running a background check on Edward Cullen? Maybe she should go for that, the safest panacea she could manage to get. Her mind sobered up when pale fingers were waved in front of her face. "What?"

Edward shook his head. "I asked you, what's your plan for the rest of the day?"

Tossing her blond locks back, she straightened up. "Nothing much, I'd probably eat out and hang out." Jade asked to have a night out at a bar that had just opened downtown, and it might be easier to ask Steve in person anyway. "You?"

He lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. "Help my mother with her work." His tone was easy, like it was a daily occurrence.

 _Look at that, another check,_ her mind whispered. A family man. She tugged at her earlobe. Okay, she was definitely asking Steve before the park opening.

§

The park was called Hearst Park because the land was their personal property, and turned into a public park to make sure it wasn't going to be developed into another building or a chain store. Hearst family personally profited by hiring it out and turning it into a beautiful wedding venue with the view of the Great Lake. She had attended a few and might secretly have a plan to have one there herself someday, or not, _who knows_.

The path to the center of the park were lined on each side by post lamps, giving an eerie romantic glow in the Fall afternoon. The small building that housed a kitchen had been renovated and modernized, painted a cheerful baby blue color and had more greeneries planted surrounding the space in dozens of window-boxes. But it wasn't what made her jaw go slack; A dozen of gigantic, awkward trees that had been at risk of being cut down a few years ago were now actually in use, holding yellow string lights from and across, and extra nylon strings to hang smaller, green floral arrangements in the shape of little balls that stopped right a head above Bridget's hair.

Two long, wooden tables that held overall around ninety chairs, give or take, was set side by side, their polished surface reflecting the fairy lights above. Silver utensils folded inside white napkins sitting in front of each chair, accompanied by a water and a wine glass. Bridget wondered if _Florette's_ did the flowers, because they did a great job with the yellow primroses and baby purple asters set in tiny glass jars in between the candle arrangements. A few more round tables covered with white cloth were set on the left to seat the hosts and primary guests, decorated in a similar manner. Right beside it sat a group of small orchestra, adding a romantic flare to the ambience. Clearly, no expense had been spared to show the potential of the new park. Moreover, who designed the concept?

" _Mon Dieu._ " Jade placed a hand on her chest above her heart. She looked ready to faint right then and there.

" _Fan yourself, woman,_ " Bridget joked in the same language, getting into the mood. She thought the place would look even better as it got darker outside. Bridget and Jade had come as girl dates since their boy dates were the host and his cousin, the girls matching in their black and white attire even down to their pearl jewelries— Jade in full on Parisian, white-collared black dress, completed with white mid-calf socks and oxford flats, and Bridget in a form-flattering black dress with pencil-styled skirt, two white cutouts in the shape of a triangle adorning each side of her medium busts, her blonde hair pinned back to show off the design. " _Allons-y,"_ she said, pulling on Jade's hand to greet the hosts and snatch their boyfriends from their families.

"Bridget, Jade, you look wonderful," Mrs Hearst simpered, taking turn to kiss their cheeks. "Steve, Jade's here," she called to a young man clad in dark, long-sleeved shirt that was rolled up to his elbows, showing off toned arms. "Sorry Bree, I asked Charles to pick up his grandmother," she added in an undertone.

Bridget waved a hand in dismissal, watching Steve come up to his girlfriend and giving a kiss on her cheek, Jade instantly dropping her nonchalant demeanor and beamed at him. Jade liked comparing Steve to Sami Frey in _Une balle au coeur —_ dark-haired, light-eyed man with broad shoulders and big arms— he graduated college two years ago and was now pursuing a career in something his father would've never approved: tutoring. He had a robust diamond face and a menacing stature to support the imposing image, but Steven Hearst was also the boy who held her bike steady when she tried to ride without stabilizers for the first time, he even kissed her booboos when she fell and cried like the little baby she was. They were neighbors before she moved to a different suburb in Rochester, and Steve was the most caring big brother person she ever knew of.

"Steve!" She rammed into his open arms laughing and without warning, feeling the rumble of his chest when he chuckled. She felt her hair ruffled and grunted, pushing his hands away. "Spent an hour on this, no touch," she admonished, though couldn't help but grin back when he did.

"Going strong?" his voice was gruff as ever.

"Going strong she is," Jade answered for her, hugging Steve's other side so they looked like a Steven sandwich walking around to greet the other guests. _What a lucky boy_.

Bridget saw Mr Hearst speaking to a beautiful pair of husband and wife and approached them without hesitation. It was customary to greet hosts first, especially when Mr Hearst was her boyfriend's dad. "Mr Hearst, _hi,"_ she greeted the man in his mid-forties, dressed impeccably in long-sleeved shirt, navy blazer that matched his tie, and khaki chinos. He was the definition of cool suburban dad, much like Bridget's own but of course - they were school friends back in the day.

"Bree girl, we meet again." He clasped her shoulder, eyes twinkling with adoration. He turned to the pair he was talking to and said, "This is my boy's girlfriend, Bridget Wilson. Bree, this is Carlisle Cullen and his wife Esme."

As she greeted the pair, she was struck with the fact that her luck had suddenly looked up. Just the people she was looking for. _They certainly look the part._ Mr Hearst went on, telling her that Carlisle was the head surgeon in the general hospital and taught the medical students in Dexter — an information she got from Steven, and something she wanted to slap her forehead for since she had actually met the doctor, over a year ago for Pa's consultation — and his wife was a talented interior/exterior designer.

Bridget raised a hand in greeting.

Carlisle Cullen was an incredibly handsome, movie star-esque man in his mid-thirties, his blond hair neatly combed back and dressed up for the occasion, leaving behind the scrubs and jacket. The woman standing beside him wasn't a different story. The first thing that struck Bridget was the kind, genuine smile that seemed to be etched permanently on her heart-shaped face. She was dressed modestly in an old Hollywood glamour piece that glittered under the yellow light. Everything about this woman was very soft; her smiling eyes, her nose, her chin, and the waves of her caramel-colored hair. Esme was a subtle beauty compared to her striking husband.

"How's your grandfather?" Carlisle asked her. She was surprised he remembered. He definitely didn't hang his doctor hat by the entrance. "I heard he's transferred to Callahan?" She knew it was a polite question, but she couldn't help it when a small frown formed on her face. _You probably know more than I do, he forbid me from interfering with his medical business._

"He's doing alright. He's coming, actually, you can ask him yourself." She smiled, wondering how her old man was going to dress for the occasion. "Are you related to Edward? He's my classmate at Dexter," she explained, feigning a clueless expression.

Carlisle's eyebrows raised, eyes lit up in recognition. "He's my son. I didn't realize you're the same Bridget he told me about." His tone was earnest.

"All good things, I hope," she joked. "Is he coming?"

"Being a new student is a nerve-wracking experience and you pointing him out to the right classes is very helpful." He smiled in the way the corners of his eyes crinkled. "And last I checked, he is."

She shrugged, keeping a polite smile on, eyes sliding onto his wife who was positively beaming. _Did I do something?_

"Bree, if you like what you see here it's all Esme's work," Mr Hearst informed, gesticulating at the park knowing the Bridget's interest in interior/exterior designing and décor. It was something Bridget and her mom shared, an eye for beautiful household pieces that transcended to party decorations.

Bridget's eyes went round, darting to the woman who was smiling shyly. She probably looked like a love-struck fool. "I'm in _love_ , would you walk me through your magic?" She felt relieved and giddy when the older woman nodded and flashed an ecstatic smile.

"Do you think it's too crowded?" Esme asked her, pointing at the green hydrangeas hung from the strings as they walked away from the men who were wondering whether putting the two together was a bright decision. She also had the pleasant silvery voice that Edward had, but gentler for obvious reasons.

On another note, Bridget had to remember to ask the song they were playing, it made her want to run back to Bernard café and sit pretty.

"I think it's the best part," she sighed.

§

"I think that's enough gushing, the two of you."

Bridget glanced at the owner of the voice, grinned with a childish glee at Edward and said goodbye to Esme. She took his polite offer to place her hand on the crook of his elbow.

"Esme," he greeted his mother with a furtive smile. He looked like he was in a good mood, his face set in a lopsided smile and his features showed that he had a good night's sleep, something that happened once in a fortnight or so. Esme sent her a conspiratorial wink before leaving the two to their own.

"You look… _dapper,"_ she pointed out smilingly, checking out his charcoal suit, admiring the subtle detail of the satin lapel binding. Yet again he managed to pull off a classic look so effortlessly. If they were going to have to see each other often in the long run, it might be good on her soul to accept that he would look good in anything and stuck out like a sore thumb in the sea of people with his family. "And I actually like your mom, she has a good eye," she sighed, hand gesturing at the party.

"Even with all the girlfriend-material interrogations?"

She glanced at him shrewdly, but then her voice lost half its boisterousness as she answered, "Every mother does that, you know." _It's better than having to do it yourself._ She clucked. "Anyway, it was a win-win situation; I got more info on you in a fifteen-minute talk with Esme than two weeks of you following me around. I wonder why that is?"

"You never let me finish when I'm speaking," his reply was glum. "And I was not following you around."

"Yes you were."

"No, I was waiting around for you." He smirked.

She snorted. "And what were you waiting for, exactly?"

His answer was unexpectedly straightforward and accompanied with his withering gaze, it was uncomfortably serious. "For you to deem me worthy to be your friend."

She blinked.

Esme had just dazzled her with knowledge of Edward that Bridget couldn't get from a formal résumé. It was like cracking a code she had been on for weeks, or finding a lost family treasure.

It was her favorite kind of high.

His family was not at all the small four-people household she imagined. One, he only ever mentioned a sister once, and two, he acted like an only child most of the time; there was a certain loneliness that came with growing up alone — Bridget would know. Esme told her with massive fondness glowing in her eyes that she and Carlisle adopted Edward, Alice and Jasper who were the same age, and they all went to Alaska for college until Edward decided to come back. Their family was also very close to Rosalie, Carlisle's cousin who had her own little family now.

No, his background check crossed off the possibility of him going after her for the reason she disliked the most.

In fact, they ran in the same social circle, the sometimes-overbearing community of Rochester suburban families. Esme had also conveyed her condolences on the loss of Bridget's parents, even when it had happened a couple of years ago, and she was so sincere that Bridget couldn't think of anyone who deserved her thanks for uttering those words more.

It was really odd that Bridget had never known a Cullen before. Given, they lived in different areas, but she had known people from different schools and went to homecoming dances with some of the boys. She was sure she wouldn't miss a face like Edward's. It was her inner-competitiveness that made her very well-connected, which violently disagreed with the other side of her that could get extremely lazy. Her piece of cookie wasn't math or science (although she was decent at them) but people.

Just now, Edward's simple statement cut through deeper than she thought it would. _Truth ought to have more power than lies,_ as it were. She grasped his suit-clad elbow harder, stopping them both from continuing their stroll. "You know what? Give me your phone." She held out her hand.

He regarded her with a calculating look, before humming to himself and fishing out the device from his breast pocket.

They had the same model. _Huh,_ unsurprising, since it was the hippest release of the year and suddenly everyone was flipping their phones open and close. She pulled up his contacts, stopped herself from reading out all the names listed—which was of a considerable variety— and added a new contact. Punching in her number, she sent a daring glance at her decidedly new friend before inputting her name. "Call me sometime," she said, handing him his phone back. "Or not, whatever, just don't sell it to boys at the bars or something."

Edward's head tilted as he took it, his usually stoic face held a miscellany of emotions that she could only classify as mild surprise, childish giddiness, amusement, and the slightest concern thrown into the mix. "Are you sure?" His eyes were looking for any reaction on her part that might contradict her words.

It seemed that they both knew what it meant. For her, at least.

It was her turn to appraise him. "Frankly, no."

Austen said that _seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others._ She believed that between her and Edward, the initial notion would be more accurate than the latter.

"But we won't know if we don't try, right?"

* * *

 **Thank you for your review:**

 **MiaEther: Actually, that's a sexy idea. Might even steal it ;)**


	7. A Peek Inside

**Hello, sorry for the long wait. It was because I managed to finish the eighth chapter before I even thought of what I want for the seventh; It was one of those skips that I couldn't cover. So, after a long consideration, here's how it turned out: The first part was a little leftover from the party in previous chapter, and the second part was in Edward's point of view, just to let you in to what makes him so adamant to know her.**

 **Hope you like it, and please tell me if you think Edward seemed too out of character.**

 **Also, the idea of him being _just_ a broody teenager with a partisanship toward music and nothing else is insufferable, so I'll obviously expand. Enjoy!**

The water was bitter with a tinge of lemon. Bridget set the glass back down on the table and picked up her fork, staring down at the food on her plate. Suddenly filled with dread, she glanced to her right, meeting the eyes of her boyfriend. Charles, like his cousin, was bequeathed with the same elongated face, though his was thinner and his nose not as long. He had a wide set of baby blue eyes, slight shadows marred its underneath when light hits over his head. His eyebrows were thin, covered by his unruly blond hair. There was something almost lazy about his movements, a conjunction of long limbs and elfish features. He was an elegance of princely degree.

She was never quite sure, when the idea of having a very, almost too good-looking boyfriend had taken hold. Bridget was sure it wasn't inspired by the fairytales her parents read to her once in a blue moon, nor from the time she had her nose in books before having a clique was mandatory in middle school. But every single one of her exes and current boyfriend were princes in their own rights, and Jade noticed it long before she did. _Do you want to be a princess or something?_ she had asked, _go to France and look for the Grimaldis, I'm sure you'll manage._ To which Bridget rolled her eyes and threw a volleyball at Jade's arm.

But now that she looked at another who caught her attention, maybe it was true.

Edward

It was a most natural form of curiosity for humans to want to know what other people think of them and vice versa, but akin to that was also the fact that one doesn't know what they have until they don't.

Peace.

The peace he had in his own speculation and reciprocation was taken away the moment he realized why everybody seemed so unnaturally talkative and forward. It was a bliss to not know that a guy walking by was struggling to make ends meet financially, or the upperclassman that sat on the bench was fighting a losing battle to depression, because if there was one thing he learned from the admirable patron of his dysfunctional family was that you help where you can, but you can't save everyone. _That is not the way this cruel world works,_ and he was bound to learn from those who learned the hard way. After all, he won the jackpot because he could sympathize very well; all those years of having an expressive mother and a father who was the polar opposite had him latching onto the trait early on in his human life.

With time, he understood the difference someone's intelligence and interests could make in the way they sound. Some dreamt in beautiful colors, some completely lacked of them, and some just _didn't_. The imaginative lot had more pictures than words, which gave him both entertainment and dread. Those with strong artistic streak impressed him so thoroughly when they managed to compare the most mundane objects to visual arts and unknowingly expanded his knowledge in the process. Then there were those who gave him an imaginary headache, the ones who could recall _everything_ from what they ate last night to what the professor wore in the last two weeks down to the color of their shoelaces. It was the closest mnemonic ability to that of his kind, but of course, _they_ were naturally more methodical and tuck their secrets in neat little boxes. Close to that were the ones who thought in a mishmash of several languages all at once; they confound and mesmerize him, giving his brain a brief intermission when he happened to not know the language even though he was determined to keep shortening that list.

' _Oh, that's the math transfer? Cute!_ '

It took him a few years to completely stop responding to any sentence that was 'blurted out' by random strangers, but humans who saw him for the first time seemed to share a similar line of thought that it didn't bother him anymore when they pictured things that he would never have done, like saying yes to go out on a date with a human. Rose would've called it travesty.

The piece of paper in his hand had B302 printed right under AFM, and he knew it was the right room when he heard his name echoed around. They were excited and anxious to have a new face joining their tight group, some for their performance, some for whether he was dateable. No matter the circumstances, people never really leave high school days behind, they just think around it instead of in it.

' _Does look like a smart kid._ '

' _Isn't that Cullen from school?_ '

His eyes slid slightly to the left, seeing the boy he heard from the corner of his peripheral. Edward recognized him, another name in the endless list of people whom he knew a little too intimately to his liking. Kevin Taylor, an intelligent kid he knew from Spence Preparatory who could've gone anywhere he wanted if he could be more trusting. Mr and Mrs Taylor were practitioners of bad parenting to the point that their mild genius son was never appreciated the way he ought to be. Kevin was one of the few that Edward actually talked to in Spence, but he deserved so much more attention than the one that came from the school faculty and a ninety five year old teenager. It was Kevin's humble line of welcoming thoughts that made Edward return his smile.

Kevin was wondering whether the cake he chose for his younger sister was pretty enough, because their parents gave her a stump of cash to spend in exchange of birthday wishes when all she wanted was a family dinner with a pretty cake and songs.

In Edward's unspoken opinion, Kevin's love for his undeserving family reminded him of Carlisle's fondness of his, because even with the mess the young new family made decades ago, he still had the aspiration to make it work purely out of the deep affection and adoration they hold for one another. He believed it was for this very reason the olympiad medalist Kevin Taylor stayed for his sister instead of packing for Boston, just like how Edward surprisingly didn't mind humoring Alice's request for him to go back to New York. Her request was crafted into a cryptic question and not even a single glimpse of what she saw slipped into his view.

 _If you can extend the family like Rose did, would you do it if I tell you to?_

Well, if she said it that way… He'd rather the fault not be placed on him. Scorned Alice could drive him crazy faster than the shallowest thinker he'd ever met.

"Mr Cullen?"

Alan Turner was propitiously a man of above average intellect, though with a certain disliking towards nonchalance — which must disagree with him so fervently since he was teaching undergraduate students who were mostly blasé teenagers with a tonne of quandaries from having their first taste in flourishing into adulthood.

Being _the UAA transfer kid_ certainly set a bar high up for him to reach but it wouldn't be much of a challenge after achieving his doctorate twice, so Dexter was just another private institution he would attend to hopefully learn something new. There were a few faces he recognized on his way to the lecture room, those from Spence that he attended with Alice and Jasper and some whom he'd seen here and there along the journey. This would be the first time he broke their siblings tradition of separating from their parents after the school cycle ended, letting Carlisle and Esme be like any other parents who had to let go of their children when they go to college. It was a break they need as a family unit, to go their own ways for a few years before reuniting again to start over somewhere else, hopefully somewhere new, with an almost childish excitement to be together again.

Edward was not amused to be away from the niece and nephew because the next time they start over, they wouldn't be so small anymore. As relatively unchanging individuals, they felt a pull towards those who does, things that grow and flourish like a work of art. So he missed their petty fights and chatters already. _Only for you Alice..._

Prof Turner handed him the semester's syllabus half-accusing Edward for not inputting his email address. It was printed neatly without a dent on the paper, which was especially pleasing to him since his vision allowed him to see even the lightest crease.

It looked like he would learn something new after all. Disliking arithmetics when he was a young child receiving an expensive education meant that he flinched at the idea of learning advanced scientific mathematics. But beating the odds, Jasper managed to hook him into the concept of financing a few years back when he claimed that each of the family should care more than taking a financial manager's advice on what they should or should not do with their fortune. It was what landed him in UAA, taking up the challenge to earn a BSc in Actuarial Science, which mostly consisted of maths and finances that were ultimately put for insurance.

He hadn't been so elated for education in awhile, and it gave him a good feeling that put him in an almost constant good mood.

Edward chose the seat near the back corner, one of the many that was unoccupied. People in this class were used to one another, been a part of the same, relatively small group for two years now that they unconsciously drew a map of seating arrangements in their heads, and he had seen them, which was why he knew this one was empty.

He approached the table after responding to greetings that came, to his relief, from everyone. His family's reputation must've preceded him for them to open a spot in their math family even when there was instinctive wariness in the edge of their thoughts. Them Cullens knew that being cordial and actually making acquaintances make their 'life span' in a place longer, especially when (with the help of the Cullen women) they mastered the outward appearance of aging with the help of fashion and hairstyle.

It wasn't only to make them feel like they belong and enjoy a city to its fullest, but they'd like Carlisle to stay in the position he liked most, the one with the biggest responsibility and as of now, he was a head surgeon. With the fact that it took fourteen years of education to be a certified specialist surgeon, Carlisle couldn't exactly appear in one place and start being one at 'twenty seven'. No matter how much they'd like to dissociate themselves from the public, they needed to be social to do what each wanted. Carlisle naturally was an amiable man who worked well with others in the medical field, Esme couldn't work as a designer and not hire people to do the heavy lifting since she supposedly couldn't, Edward himself enjoyed education and music and he couldn't achieve any accolade without having connections within, and so was the rest of the family.

He took a seat, still on the progress of making himself somewhat comfortable with how creaky it turned out to be (that must be why nobody wanted it)— _no problem_ , he could just stop moving — when he stumbled in his own senses.

It was ridiculous.

He felt more naked than if he was to go skinny-dipping in the lake.

And he wasn't even supposed to be a creature to be thrown off-guard.

The initial shock of being cut off his senses had him clenching his fists, a small relief flooding him when he could feel the friction of skin even when his chest felt like plumbing down to his stomach when he was sure he wasn't supposed to feel fine sand crunching beneath his soles. There was a nasty stickiness and an itchy sensation, combined with scorching heat on his head and back, and to his horror even the _smell_ of saline water.

Panic rose in his throat, his privacy had been snatched so suddenly and thoroughly he wasn't quite sure how to react next. Closing his eyes, he opened it again and felt his eyes water. _Too bright._

The next time he opened them, he had to blink one more time to make sure. This was Rochester in the middle of August. And he was in a small grey classroom in B building of Dexter University. Not a beach.

None of the students spared him more than a glance out of curiosity and interest, and they definitely didn't notice his out-of-character mild panic.

A frown lining his features, his eyes quickly scanned the room, wondering what was happening, and whether he had missed something. A smaller part of his mind was blaring sirens to look out for others _like_ him. But he hadn't smelt, felt, nor heard anything out of the ordinary.

He was in the middle of listening in to everyone, broadening his extra sense to point out _who_ , when the second snatch came as if he had beaconed it. The process was swift and painless, but this… this felt too painfully intimate now that he could actually _see_ what was happening. Decades spent on unwillingly listening in to other people's perusal didn't prepare him to be in literally someone else's shoes.

He had pivoted in the same spot and was now facing the opposite direction, head tilting down to look at a pair of colorful sandals on rather small and feminine feet, his right hand outstretched in front of his face. He had to admit, they were pretty fingers: long, and the palm was rather large, fit to play the piano and reach an octave with the thumb and pinky, or even one more note if lucky. There was a bundle of skin on the middle finger - from writing and pushing the pen excessively on it he was sure. It didn't make the hand ugly, but his thumbnail absentmindedly scratched on the rough surface.

He looked up, and now he could see a modest, all-white, window-paned beach residence. The noise of wave crashing to the rocks in the background accompanied the strong gust of wind attacking his bare upper-arms.

He felt his feet breaking into a jog, treading through swallowing sand and made his way up to the doors. It was—

"Miss Wilson," a sharp, clearly annoyed voice snapped Edward and his snatcher out of the pleasing scenery and back to the grey classroom. "Late again, are we?"

In secondhand annoyance, Edward clenched his fist, mildly surprised when his caught the very same gesture in his peripheral, and even more surprised for not liking the interruption. His eyes quickly focused on the particular hand. A feminine right hand, clenched and unclenched. _There._ The calloused middle finger.

His hesitance astounded him.

He almost didn't want to know his snatcher.

He didn't want the mystery killed, a mystery so rare to someone who hears too much.

Trailing up, he slowly built a side profile: slightly calloused fingers, slim arms covered by a plaid blazer, blonde hair on her back slightly darkened by the damp weather, a peek of a cream turtleneck, and the golden glint of a necklace before zeroing on the face. A strong, feline jaw, a full protuberant set of lips quickly turning down into a scowl, a slanted nose, dusted with the lightest freckles under the minimal makeup, a protruding hazel eye: more green than brown, and a sharp-edged, defined eyebrow.

And she was staring down at Prof Turner, distaste running through both her and the Professor's heads.

' _It's seven oh five,'_ Edward caught her flitting thought. It was the first time he heard her voice. It was a pleasant, clear voice with a distinct round accent tinging the particular 'oh'.

It was true. She wasn't late.

He didn't like where the Professor's private mumbling was going. He definitely wasn't nice to his own student, the very one Edward remembered from the odious mention of her name in his thoughts. Her family was in the news for the most unfortunate reason, orphaned so suddenly and unexpectedly. Alan Turner thoughtlessly decided she had had enough time to grieve and he had the right to judge whatever she did now with no aberration. He didn't like her for being the child of a prominent family, for not having to work a single day in her life, and even her excellent GPA didn't persuade him to think that maybe that was where her time went.

Surprisingly, the girl's mind was going in the same direction. She knew he didn't like her, and she _knew_ exactly why.

Edward couldn't stop the smile lining his features, finding himself rooting for her.

The third snatch was the final straw.

This time he was seeing the Professor from the right side angle— _her_ angle—, eyes focusing on the book Prof Turner was holding. Edward noticed now what gave off the illusion; the noise. It was more of a peaceful ambiance that came a little too clearly as if there was nobody else in the room, because there was only her and the Professor.

It gave him a prickling sensation like he was going through an underwear drawer he definitely didn't have any business in.

But curiosity killed the cat and he never before encountered a mind visualization so strong.

It was quick, just a move of the finger as the Professor flipped a page. It was an uncomfortably incongruous feeling of having one's finger cut by paper; the sharp pinch that made one jump and cradle their finger so quickly and wish to protect them from papers forever.

If his body could, shivers would've run down his spine and goosebumps would forcefully attack his skin. His utterly dead, impossible to penetrate skin, yet he swore he felt it.

The image fizzled out as quickly as it had appeared.

Bridget Wilson had a moue on her face, but it straightened out and formed a Mona Lisa smile before she turned her back on the Professor. ' _I have no obligation to be nice to him whatsoever.'_

He snorted quietly. She definitely wasn't the kindest person in the room.

This tall girl with long blonde hair, buttery complexion and odd micro-expressions; enigmatically smiling and indolently observing him as she walked pass was the one visualizing the beach house and felt the scorching heat.

And Edward found her dismay for the fact that he took her bag's designated seat incredibly amusing.

 _'Why anyone would want that seat is beyond me.'_

 **Thank you for your review(s):**

 **BarbyChan4ever : Thanks for always leaving me nice reviews ;)**


	8. Ripping

**It's been a hot minute. I was in the phase of hating just about every single thing I wrote... and in my last year of uni (I'm so stressed I can't even). So here it is. Thank you for every reader, every review, favourite, and follow. It gives me the motivation to update and go on with my story.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Saturday

Chlorinated water lapped at her forearms, the combination of coldness and faux warmth from the skin's familiarity with the temperature was always something that felt like home. She had known how to swim most her life, introduced through dog-style swimming until an instructor was hired to teach her how to do it properly. The high-pitched squeals and laughter were also familiar – she was a part of it once, before she understood it only made her energy depreciate a little faster. They came all the way from the shallow pool area, one of three, with a horde of guards and nannies standing around making sure their heads stayed above the water level.

Insistent beeping interrupted her nostalgia, her head immediately snapping up to look at the source – the bag she left by the chaise lounge. Swimming closer to the side, she placed her palms down shoulder width and heaved the rest of her torso up. Cold water trickled down her stomach, hips, and thighs, navy swimsuit quickly repelling the liquid as she automatically swiveled in place to sit herself, knees to toes still in the water. Morning air viciously attacked her bare skin, biting and nipping her drenched form sending shivers down her spine. It would probably be another week, or two, if lucky, before the weather got too cold to swim.

Bridget's eyes followed that of her boyfriend's lean body as he swam from the opposite end, watched his feet pulling up to the surface for a moment before quietly slapping down, diving under the water. His butterfly strokes were mesmerizing, compelling her to ogle with unabashed admiration; his kicks expertly streamlined, propelling him forward with seemingly little effort since his breathing was controlled and quiet - a result of tenuous practice and exercise. The muscles in his arms contracted each time it appeared above the waterline, the tendons in his back and stomach following suit before they bent down again. The speed he was reaching her at was impressive.

She listened to the ringtone cycling twice more as she dried her hands on a towel before picking up. "Bridget Wilson."

 _"Good morning, Ms. Wilson, this is Jennifer calling from Rachel Clarke's office. I'm calling to remind you that you have an appointment today."_

Charles reached the end of the pool by the second sentence, heaving himself up to sit and have a breather out of the water's pressure. His aquamarine eyes found hers quickly, head tilting to the side. _Everything fine?_ She waved her hand dismissively, turning around to continue the conversation.

"Yeah, 3 p.m. right?"

 _"Actually, she might be running a little late today so I'm moving your appointment to 3.30, is that okay?"_

She wracked her brain for any extra activities she might have planned after four o'clock. "It's okay, I'll be there."

" _Great, thank you for confirming. Have a good day, Ms. Wilson."_

"Thanks, have a good day." She pressed end, jumping slightly when a shadow settled above her, Charles proceeded to take a seat on the lounge, stretching himself on the chaise and beckoning her to join. Raising an eyebrow, she peered around the deep-end area, finding the audience group diminishing by the second as the sun started to rise - a time-up for all the early swimmers, stuffed her phone back to the side pocket of her bag before crawling over his body, careful not to trample anything - not that he would mind since they've done much more than 'trampling' in the twelve months they have been together. Charles' hand reflexively wrapped around her waist, the other gently taking in her face, brushing his lips against hers. Chest to chest, she took notice of his heartbeat, still strong from the swim, thrumming out of sync with hers. Her eyes drooping, she placed her arms on his sides hugging him, resting her head on his shoulder facing his neck, breathing in the scent of chlorine and feeding off his body heat as much as she knew he was. Swimming, like any other sport, always left her feeling lazy and tired, and she couldn't resist Charles' suggestion of a power nap. Combined with early sun shining down her back, it was a pack of efficiency.

"Have you been sleeping well?"

"Mmhm, I've been good." She lightly hummed in remorse, dreading the looming fact that this was what she would lose when they broke up; the familiarity and understanding of each other's character, knowing tics and tact, the openness of talking out problems, matching up schedules to meet in-between. She loved their dynamic, the convenience and relief of having someone on the beck-and-call, subtly filling in the spot her parents vacated and her close friends couldn't fit into.

It was her most grown-up relationship as of yet, and as a level-headed being, she was reluctant to let it go. On the other hand, they were born and bred a trust-fund baby, a mystical species that always, _always_ had the 'wait' option. They could afford more time when it came down to it; to wait a year or five after school for college, to enjoy recklessness of youth for a bit longer before settling down in the office, and even to have a life partner. If not now, then maybe in the future they could reconsider the relationship. That was how they were raised to think.

Her belief in the 'wait' option had cracked ever so slightly under the pressure of her parents' untimely death, but didn't erase the principle she was brought up with. She could afford the breakup physically - not having a definite date to take to formal events or not having someone to help take care of her car, but mentally? Knowing that she didn't have the right to call him at three a.m. because her bad dream gave her paranoia was quite a sad thought.

"Are you thinking about Jade's request?" Charles' voice lowered to a whisper, tugging a strand of damp blonde lock behind her ear.

Her musing was abruptly cut short.

She placed a hand on his chest, looking up, blinking and forcing herself to focus on the blue brilliance of his eyes. Her eyes narrowed. "What?" her voice hardened even though she knew Steven would be the ever good cousin and told Charles what had been going on.

"You've been contemplating." His fingers traced her open back, soothing the stiffening muscles. "I've been doing the same." His tone was even and light, not like discussing the weather, but in control of a situation that could very easily get out of hand. He had given this conversation a thought – something she deeply appreciated about Charles. They both stood on the more serious end of the spectrum of personality, and Bridget found early on that not many boys she'd met were on the same boat. Most teased her relentlessly – and though she understood it was one technique of flirting, and it was nice when they gave just the right amount of jest to show their attention, they didn't realize it didn't bode well with her when it kept going on and on. Her person had gone through a change of understanding when she was orphaned that she tended to read into things a little too deeply. Being upset and uneasy over simple things were just a couple of the ramifications.

Her stomach tied in a knot as she thought forward. She could easily and readily admit that Charles had been a pyre she leaned on from the first time they met and recognized their mutual interest. He was _good,_ and Pa liked him for treating her right. Taking that away was a little more complicated than ripping off a Band-Aid.

Living in a suburb where people sailed and played golf to socialize, wore argyle daily, and gossip ladies group were tight was an ample condition for news mill to run like wildfire. Bridget had no doubt that she would be put on sale by Monday like a catalogue. Mr. and Mrs. Hearst would chip in a good word of what a daughter-like girlfriend she had been and how she had changed their son's ways, _they just unfortunately couldn't get through this one,_ Mrs. Hearst would say. In their society, a year was a respectable length to end a relation and shush any third-party gossip surrounding the breakup. It was what 'professionally single' stood for in Jade's dictionary.

The lazy cloud that hung over her had completely blown away now. She finally said, "And the conclusion you've come to is...?"

"We can't move forward." The apologetic tone in his reply was so familiar to her that she knew his lips was going to turn down at the corners and he would say, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Cupping his chin with her forefinger she said, "We tried." With a defeated sigh she plopped back down, kissing the side of his jaw that said what she couldn't say. _Thank you._ "We didn't even fight," she murmured.

Charles chuckled. "We're a tad too intelligent to resolve to that."

She snickered. "True."

"Come on, I'll drive you to the center." He sat up, leisurely hoisting Bridget up by her waist and leading them to the shower area.

Turned out, she did have something to talk to Rachel about. Albeit it hurt like hell.

* * *

Monday

A multitasker on a subconscious level. _That's what she is_ , Edward decided.

She was… confusing at best. Hyper-critical with details and a closet genius when it came to scenario-making. He had a partiality for intelligent people – which was nothing surprising, given the knowledge he had acquired in time. He was almost basking in her singularity, especially when she would suddenly disappear from his radar and he couldn't track her down, as if he was on a bicycle and her a Mustang. Way too quick. His mind's feet would scramble in consternation to look for her. Then he would find her music, mostly a full rendition of Mozart or Beethoven with near-perfect accuracy, and he would find her exactly where she'd always been. Just _there_.

The worst part would be when she seemingly 'wake' and asked herself, _where was I?_ in her humorously dry tone, and a distant _nevermind_ would follow.

He'd feel like pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration because he pondered on the same thing, and it wasn't daydreaming. He could _see_ daydreams. Bridget's consciousness seemed to go _'poof'_ and then pop back whenever convenient with an orchestra drill.

Singular, indeed.

"Good morning, Edward." The dry tone came back, now in a tangible form of expression. His eyes flickered downward to find green – no, they were more blue today, eyes looking back. Brown, lime green, and azure blue were constantly fighting for dominance in Bridget's stare.

"Good morning," he replied.

"What are you here for today?" Her mind filled with various meetings with him over the past few weeks. They didn't usually meet this day this time. He hummed.

"Turning in assignments." He pointed at his bag, feigning annoyance. She nodded in understanding. "How about you?"

"I have a class to assist." She jiggled the stack of paper and files in her hands. They were piano music scores.

His eyebrows raised. She did have a job. "You're a TA? But you're not a music student."

She grinned and _lovely_ was the only adjective that came to mind. It offered a rare sight on her countenance and he couldn't help himself from reciprocating, even if it paled in comparison. "I grew up under Leroy's apprenticeship – my technique is pretty much his, so he asked me to assist when I applied here; Mostly to play examples and coach privately sometimes." Her tone painted a clear picture of her fondness of the man and reminiscent of her childhood. He didn't need to peek to confirm that.

Philippe Leroy, now Professor Leroy was an admirable performer, especially during his prime touring days in his thirties. For reasons unknown to the public but clear as day to Edward, Leroy preferred sharing his knowledge this past decade. Another layer of information to add to one Bridget Wilson, who could apparently afford hiring a professional classical pianist to teach her from zilch. His surprise must be clear on his face. He knew her family was well-off, but to that degree…?

"Do you play?"

He paused himself from responding with an automatic 'yes'. He'd been asked the same question dozens of times before, and it always signified a beginning.

It occurred to him, _as it always did,_ that there was an idealistic relationship he had a direct hand in building right this moment. The chance opened up with the phone number exchange, an affirmation to his request, but the information-digging started here. He felt cornered for a moment, which was an incredibly hypocritical and selfish thought since he was the one demanding for her company like an adolescent child demanding for their mother. He had won a chase, so what happened next? There had never been a next before, since the day he woke anew. Edward Masen was forever a teen-aged boy in that sense, unwilling to return the favor other people showed him after he got what he wanted.

His phone beeped. Sending a sheepish look to Bridget (which she responded with a playful eye roll) he flipped it open. A text.

 _'Say yes.'_

Alice. He heaved a huge internal sigh.

Another came in.

 _'For me.'_

He snorted inaudibly. Something Emmett said flashed inside his head. _When in doubt, let Alice decide._ Emmett said it should be their family motto.

It seemed that his sister was still seeing a future of him entertaining false ideas about himself because another beep came.

 _'They couldn't, or you wouldn't?'_

Now that was plain rude.

Edward distinctly remembered the one of very few moments Carlisle openly questioned his virtue. The balance was heavily skewed: Edward could order the best three-course-meal, from open to finish, for any human, yet they couldn't tell of his strict liquid diet. _They couldn't, or you wouldn't?_ Edward hadn't provided an answer in the two decades it had been proposed.

If he was being honest and slightly self-degrading, the answer was: he wouldn't. And because he wouldn't, _they_ couldn't. Was this meant to be a hint from Alice? After all, she was the one who peer-pressured him into going back to New York.

With his resolution solid he finally answered, "Yes. The piano." The dreaded personality reading through his music might not happen now, but if this did go the way Alice wanted it to, it might.

"Cool," Bridget replied nonchalantly. The length of her yellow skirt swished when she turned to him. Her eye-contact was very telling; as much pain the tragedies in her life caused her, her confidence when directly addressing people never wavered. "Is there any chance you'd be interested to see me assist? It's romantic era today."

He smiled at her offer. Bridget was trying, too. He could sense her discomfort at handing him an incorporeal ticket to witness one of her quirks, and yet she did it without a tell in her expression that she was anxious. "Of course." She returned his smile and went back to guide him to said class. "When did you start playing the piano?"

"When I was six. I'm Leroy's first student after he stopped performing professionally." They started their hike up the stairs. "I wasn't interested in performing, so that's a waste of good teaching, but it's still a hobby."

A hobby. He could relate to that. "It's not a waste if you're still playing."

She shook her head, breath coming in pants from the exertion. "You're sweet, Cullen. But you're not my boyfriend." _You don't always have to be nice_ went unsaid. There was lingering bitterness in her smile.

If only he was privy to _that_ information without brutally invading her privacy. The plan she formed in her mind estimated that the ladies' gossip wouldn't reach Esme until at least this afternoon, so he would have to wait until at least tomorrow to bring up the topic of 'cheering up'. Human society rules of propriety was tedious and time-consuming.

"Anyway…" She broke him out of his human-demeaning thoughts by sharply pulling on the sleeves of his left hand. "Welcome to Music History." She pushed open the double-doors that led into the auditorium.

* * *

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